Cajun Time
by GinnyWazlibRocks
Summary: Crawfish and alligators and cottonmouths, oh snap! Voldemort is condemned to live in the Louisiana swamp land, more terrifying than some might think. And of course, that's only the place. He hasn't even met the people yet. Chap 4, up!
1. Prologue

You guys made me feels so bad about ending the first one, I whipped this one up as fast as I could, thanks to some friends who gave me the basic idea. This has some minor background from iVoldy, but it doesn't pertain that much.

I am, in fact, of Southern/Louisiana root, so when I make complete fun of it (all in good humor, of course) I know exactly what I am talking about. This fic is like a trip to the bayou on steroids.

Note: Should you ever which to discuss this fic out loud, the word _bayou_ is pronounced "bi – you". It's French.

DC: Mutter… mutter… mutter… I said it. Didn't you hear me?

Okay. Ready? Set? Go!

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_Note to the Pimp'n Dark Lord:_ Voldemort wrote. _The Pimp'n Dark Lord, no matter how Pimp'n he may be, is still not considered Pimp'n by other prisoner's standards. _He paused to readjust the ice pack. _The Pimp'n Dark Lord must remember to never cut in line._

He closed the make-shift journal and pushed it underneath the mattress. His cell mate would be returning soon from his knitting circle, and they would be marched to dinner together.

To be honest himself, Voldemort wasn't looking forward to eating with his fellow criminals again. They may be charged with not paying their taxes, but they were very sensitive about justice. Take two steps ahead of the guy in front just to grab an apple and the whole cafeteria blows up.

The Dark Lord winced and switched hands on his ice pack. That turnip packed a whopper. He would've never guessed how creative some of these convicts could be.

Suddenly, the door to his cell opened. Expecting his cell mate, he nudged the journal deeper into the bed.

Instead, two guards entered.

"You're getting transferred." One said.

"You cause too much of a problem in this facility." Grunted the other.

"Where is it?" Voldemort asked hopefully. "Alcatraz?"

"No. It's solitary confinement."

"… In Alcatraz?"

"No!"

"Where then?"

The guards exchanged grim looks. "Louisiana's swamp land. _The bayou_." The first one said.

They left Voldemort to pack his things in condemned, horrified silence.

……………………………………………………………………………………………...

AN: Jeez, that one was shorter than my first prologue… I really need to work on that. But the next chapie will be typed with great speed!


	2. Introductions

After learning that one of my readers is also a southerner, I almost turned the prologue into a oneshot, for fear of offending. But I decided I could just get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness, should I receive any complaints.

DC: The only commercialized product in this fic is Botox. But whatever. I don't own the Pimp'n Dark Lord, though it would be pretty sweet if I did. And just saying in advance, I don't own the stereotypes of the "South" either, as they are typically wrong. Typically. See my AN at the bottom for more detail.

(gulp) So here goes.

"Wait one cotton picking minute!" – Southern saying. The sad thing is that I actually use this some times…

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As the plane crossed over the Louisiana border, steam pressed against the windows. Voldemort looked fearfully out. Below, thick green Cyprus trees loomed threateningly, and a rather threatening looking monkey swung itself on top of the canopy to bear its teeth at the aircraft.

"Now see down there, that's the Mississippi. Spelled M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I." The pilot pointed to a muddy, greenish trail of sludge that folded it's way through the swamp. "Ya'll be good to her, ya hear?"

"Um," Voldemort said tentatively. "I'm the only one in the plane."

"So?"

"Well, you said 'y'all', meaning 'you all'. But it should just be 'you'."

The pilot stared at the Dark Lord. "What kinda weirdos do they make across that pond?"

"… What pond?"

"Y'know, the ocean? Crazy, I tell ya. Must be that tea…"

The word _tea_. It brought back memories… Good ol' Snape…

"We're here!" the pilot announced, suddenly landing the plane.

Voldemort peeked out the window.

"Where exactly _is_ 'here'?" he asked.

"Why," the pilot looked surprised, "the Brown's household!"

"Which is…?"

"The bayou!"

"And…?"

"What else is there to say?"

"The middle of nowhere."

"That's no way to treat this place!" the pilot scolded. "Now, I don't want none of this here attitude round Mr. and Mrs. Brown, ya hear?"

"Yes." Voldemort muttered.

"That's a 'Yes _sir_.'" The pilot said sternly.

"Yes – Sir." Voldemort managed. He wished he were still in his prison lunch line.

"Good. Down here in the South, we value _manners_. Ain't nunt'n better. Now you get your things and get outta here. The plantation's a mile north of here. Get on!"

Voldemort climbed out of the plane, which rocked precariously, pulled his small duffel bag out from underneath the seat, and watched the place take off.

It was only after he had stood alone in the swamp for five minutes that he realized he had no idea which way north was. He decided it wasn't worth the gray hair, and stood about for another minute or so, to enjoy the view.

Well, the view wasn't very promising either. It was mainly vines, steam, mud, and Cyprus trees. Beginning to walk in a random direction, Voldemort remember vaguely that Cyprus tress had been around since the dinosaurs.

Somehow amused by this trivial fact, he trudged through the boggy mess that turned out to be a bayou for quite sometime.

Suddenly, a pair of braids with a pink ball in between them appeared upside-down in front of his face. The ball smiled brightly, revealing two missing teeth. Voldemort clutched his heart, frightened nearly to death.

"Well howday-diddly-doo-dang-diddly-dan-doo-do-diddly-"

Voldemort got over the shock.

"-diddly-dang-doo-diddly-day-dan-"

He checked his watch.

"-dang-diddly-dan-doo-do-diddly-"

Flicking a fly away from his face, Voldemort waited impatiently.

"-doo-dan-diddly-doo!"

"About time." The Dark Lord muttered.

"You must be our new babysitter!" the pink ball exclaimed, and dropped down from the vines above. "Ma said y'alled be coming soon!"

Again with the use of 'y'all' in a singular phrase, Voldemort thought, irritated.

The ball turned out to be the head of a small girl, wearing overalls and not much else. Her hair was dirty blond. Voldemort looked a little closer. Make that swampy blond.

"Well c'mon!" the girl took his hand and started pulling him across quicksand. "We'd better get going!"

"Um, little girl?" Voldemort said as he grabbed a vine to save himself from suffocation.

"Oh! M'names Billy Jane!" the girl hopped easily over the quick sand.

"So you go by Jane?" the Dark Lord asked, realizing the vine he was clinging to was an overweight cottonmouth.

"Jane?" Billy Jane looked disgusted. "No, 'course not, silly goose! I go by Billy!"

"Oh." Voldemort said weakly, while dodging a pair of fangs dripping venom. "Well, um, Billy, do you know where the Brown Plantation is?"

Billy's face lit up. "That's my Ma's and Pa's plantation! You _are_ that new babysitter!"

"Oh…" the Dark Lord said with a smile about as real as Botox, "That'll be-" he leapt desperately from the snake to the quicksand, "-fun."

"Oh, it is." Billy assured him. "What with the baby twins, and my brother…"

"Are they trans-gender too?" Voldemort asked feebly.

Billy laughed. "You're a silly goose! My brother's Barbra Joe!"

Dragging himself from the quicksand, the Dark Lord looked up inquiringly. "And he goes by…"

"Barb, of course!"

"That's very nice…" Voldemort met the girl on land. Getting down to her eye level, he said, "Billy, you seem like you're a very sweet little…" he struggled for a moment. "…child, so I'm not going to lie to you…"

"Good! 'Cause down here in the South, we value _honesty_. You can tell me anything!"

"Uh-huh… well, how do I put this…" Voldemort tried to think of a more gentle way of saying it, but having none, continued. "I hate all children."

"Oh, that's no problem. See Pa said 'that goddamn criminal better be coming away from this place with some character!' that's what he said. And doing something you hate builds character!"

Voldemort was at a loss for words.

"So you com'n, Uncle Goddamn Criminal?"

"I do have a name."

"Well let's hear it!"

"I am," he threw his arms wide with great flourish, and in the background tympanis began a crescendo, "_Lord Voldemort!_"

Billy looked at him.

"Lord what?" She asked.

"Lord Voldemort!" the Dark Lord repeated, now feeling like an idiot for hiring those timpanists.

"That's way too long." Billy decided. "I'll just call you Uncle."

"But that defeats the whole purpose of-"

"Oh, blah blah! If we don't hurry, Ma'll let Barb catch all the craw-daddies!"

"Craw-daddies?" Voldemort asked weakly, and followed the bouncing girl through the bayou, now utterly horrified.

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AN: True and false. True: they do call crawfish "craw-daddies". False: I doubt catching them is fun. True: Dinosaurs did walk among the Cyprus trees. False: I'm not sure if there are actually Cyprus trees in Louisiana. True: Cottonmouths do live in the bayou. False: Monkeys sure as hell do not.


	3. Snappy

AN: If you read the AN for iVoldy's abosolute _last_ installement, you might know I've had some trouble with this fic, so I introduced a whole new plot line, as I figured what this story lacked were fresh jokes with familiar characters. You may not understand what I mean by that with this chapter, but you will in time to come.

DC: Wow… Warner Bros…. I think this one you actually _could _sue… I'm not even going to _try_ to weasel my way out of this one…

"Jumbo!"

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Mud sucked at Voldemort's feet. Dismayed, he thought how difficult it would be to get all the slime out of his loafers. If there was even a dry cleaners close by. He looked skeptically around. And unless behind the fog there was Zip Clean, it didn't seem likely.

Ahead, Billy Jane seemed to have an endless amount of energy, and a knack for avoiding all the dangerous parts of the bayou, which seemed to take up at least 95 percent of the swamp.

The Dark Lord was so far having a very un-enjoyable time. His duffle had been completely submerged in mucky water at least three times, the vines hanging down from the trees were constantly trying to strangle him, and the large punctures in numerous places all over his body were _still_ oozing cottonmouth venom. The rather pitiful attempt to speak parseltounge with the snakes had failed, as his accent was unacceptable.

"Well hurry up, Uncle! Bob and Beau won't feed 'emselves!"

"Beau?" Voldemort inquired. "That's rather…" he flipped through his mental dictionary, "…sophisticated…"

"Yup!" Billy declared proudly, "We here in the South have French roots! We're dang near good cooks!"

"I hope so…" the Dark Lord muttered, "after all that prison gruel."

Billy, who's mood seemed to be completely waterproof, continued to explain in minute detail all about her family and their plantation.

……………………………………………………………………………………………...

**Warner Bros. Headquarters…**

"Hate to tell you this, sir, but the court has ruled it as unnecessary conduct."

The president of Warner Brothers Entertainment Incorporated gnashed his teeth angrily on his nicotine gum. A sign to continue.

"They say that Mister Voldemort Voldemort _did_ forget to pay his taxes, and as such, must serve six months, no ifs, ands, or buts."

"Can't we pull him out?" the president demanded, "Pay his taxes plus bail? For God's sake, I'd even be willing to _donate_ money to some sissy children's shelter: anything to get Voldemort outta prison! Our replacement is bringing the movies down, and our income with it!"

"We – we have a replacement for Mister Voldemort Voldemort?" the lowly secretary quavered.

"Yeah, but that JK women keeps telling us a white bowling ball on top of a broom handle ain't gonna cut it. So we need the real Voldy back." The president taped one of his chins.

"Where's he being held?" he asked eventually.

The secretary fumbled through several reams of paper before coming up with a single sheet. "Er… He just got transferred to a plantation in southern Louisiana…"

The president nodded slowly. "And how'd Paris Hilton get out?"

"She didn't, sir."

"Damn." the president muttered. "We want Voldemort out _now_. I guess we'll just have to do it the old fashioned way."

"Wait for him to be freed legally?" the secretary asked hopefully.

The president laughed, making the room shake. " Of course not! Always the joker, Whimsley, always the joker..."

Whimsley smiled weakly. "Just like you, sir," he managed.

"See, we're going to do this the _fun_ way."

The secretary's smile stayed fixed, but lost the little happiness it had previously possessed. "Er… The _fun_ way, sir?"

"Yes, Whimsley. The fun way. Now get me Danny Ocean on the closed circuit line. What the NSA doesn't know won't hurt 'em."

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A house, Voldemort had always thought, included a floor. One did not typically consider four wooden walls and a tin roof placed on a relatively solid square of bayou to be inhabitable.

But even so, the Dark Lord waded across the living room, following Billy.

"Ma! Baby sitter's here!"

A large black shadow detached itself from door to the kitchen entrance and enveloped Voldemort in a bear hug. Billy opened a window, revealing the shadow to be a huge lady with hair the same swampy blond as her daughter. Her heavy brow and numerous scars gave off the immediate impression that this was not a woman to be messed with.

"Welcome, stranger!" Billy's mother said. "When you're here, you're family, dang right! And as a family member you'll address me as 'Ma' or 'Ma'am', and your pa as 'Pa' or 'Sir'. Ya'll hear?"

"I hear." Voldemort muttered, still muffled by Ma.

"_Ma'am_" Billy whispered.

"Ma'am." Voldemort repeated.

"Good. Now run along, and go find your brother, and make sure he ain't eat'n all the crawdaddies for himself."

"Okay!" Billy smiled brightly, and dragged the Dark Lord outside again.

Two miles across treacherous swamp later, Billy finally found Barb leaning over the muddy stretch of sludge, as seen from the plane. Upon closer inspection, Voldemort realized it was in fact a river.

"Barb!" Billy shouted gleefully. Her brother turned around, with mud smeared all over his face, and up to his elbows. Beside him, a bucket rattled.

"Hey, Billy." Barb said. "You gonna help with these crawdaddies or what?"

"I had to find the new baby-sitter." Billy pouted. "But I'll help now. Ya see," she turned to Voldemort, "ya just stick your hand in the water, feel around, and pull it out!" She demonstrated, and held up a squirming shell, dripping algae.

"_That's_ a crawdaddie?" the Dark Lord asked, surprised. He thought it was some kind of bird.

"Yup! Now c'mon, and give it a try!"

Tentatively, Voldemort rolled up the sleeve of his robe and forced his arm through the water. Six inches below the surface, he could not longer make out his hand.

Carefully, he searched around, dreading the touch of anything slimy. Unfortunately, the only qualification for living in the Mississippi river was a self-sufficient slime generator. Eventually, he happened upon something that felt like a shell.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, "I think I got one!"

"Well pull it out!" Barb said.

The Dark Lord began to drag the object through the silt on the river's bottom. Suddenly, the shell popped out of the water and landed on the shore next to Voldemort.

"Whoa…" Billy said. "That's a big crawdaddie…"

A wrinkled head appeared through the gap in the shell the size of a bowling ball. It glared at the three, then whipped around and snapped a considerable amount of flesh off Voldemorts hand, which was still latched on to the turtle's leg.

"It's Snappy!" Barb cheered.

"Yay!" Billy joined in. "Snappy, we've missed you!"

The two hugged the snapping turtle, as Voldemort tended to his mutilated head. He assumed this was an experience similar to getting your hand caught in a bear trap, and solemnly resolved to never again play "Guess which Chair Is Booby-Trapped" with Snape ever again.

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AN: Yup… Snape's coming back, along with the rest of the Death Eaters. Prepare yourself, good readers.


	4. Old Friends

Well, back on track with Cajun Time! It's adopted a totally new sort of plot though. Before it was Voldy struggling for six months in the Louisiana wilderness, now it's… well, you'll see.

Disclaimer: I'm just glad I haven't mentioned another pop culture idol… the letters from Avril Lavigne were _terrible_… So I don't own anything! Especially not the refrigerator box I live in! X-)

"I'm fixn' to (enter subject matter here)"

**Studio #2, Food Network™ Headquarters…**

"Well folks, welcome back to _Tea and Me_… I'm your host, Severus!"

The post-minion Death Eater smiled and gave a cheery little wave to the studio audience. All the middle-aged women fainted.

"Today, we have a very special blend. Guys, please give a boiling round of applause to Pomegranate Rooibos!"

A scantily clad model walked onto the set, holding a special teapot.

"Wow," Snape marveled, "wow, just look at that color. Folks _this_ is what we call 'red tea'… Oh man…" he took a sip. "Delicious…"

The crowd oohed and awed.

"And now, let's take some calls from our viewers at home… Tina!" The scantily clad model returned with a phone, offering it to Snape, who took it.

"Our first caller! Danny, from LA in America… Danny, what d'ya got for us?"

The perky grin slid off the TV host's face as his listened. After a minute, he stood hastily, handing the receiver to his model.

"I'm sorry ladies and-" he gave the audience a quick scan "- er, gentle_man_, but I've just gotten an emergency call, and I can't ignore it. But no worries, Tina'll take care of you!" He dashed off, his dramatic black robe billowing behind him, well, dramatically.

**[Government confidential[Government confidential, CIA stakeout…**

The voice crackled thorught the spotty hand-held radio: "_Signore, ho loro una serratura_." [Sir, I've got a lock on them.)

"Excellent." The commander said gruffly. "You think I can bring them in?"

"_Negazione, signore. Ci sono armi dappertutto questi tipi_." [Negative, sir. There are weapons all over these guys.)

"What're our options?"

"_Non – Santo_!" [I don't – Holy!)

The explosion rattled even the speakers of the walkie-talkie. The commander shook it fiercely. "Agent Red Leader? Come in, Agent Red Leader!" He slammed his fists into the table, howling, "_Where are you, Agent Red Leader, damnit?!_"

"_Siamo sotto fuoco nemico! Ottenga le truppe fuori, io le terrà fuori!" _[We're under enemy fire! Get the troops out; I'll hold them off!)

"But Agent Red Leader -!"

"_Vada! Ora! Non abbiamo molto tempo!" _[Go! Now! We don't have much time!)

Reluctantly, the commander began ordering the rest of the troops out. "We'll miss you." He half choked as the last of the men were evacuated.

All he heard on the other line was static, and one of the privates buying Taps off iTunes.

**Malfoy Manor, somewhere in the UK…**

"What are _those_ things?" Lucius pointed upward at a small white device stuck to the ceiling.

"Smoke detectors." Bellatrix said. "Since Snape left, and we no longer notice there's a fire until all exits have been blocked and we're forced to be reincarnated, I decided it was a good idea. Especially," she shot Lucius a glare, "after that _microwavable popcorn incident_."

Lucius ignored her and clicked on the TV. His Friends episode would be on soon, and it was no time to be distracted by one of Bellatrix's annoying grudges.

But to his horror, he discovered that his program had been cancelled, displaying only a screen of black and white, reading "Death Eaters of Malfoy Manor: Your Dark Lord needs your help. This is Danny Ocean broadcasting to you now with a plan. Please respond by answering your ringing doorbell. Sincerely, Danny Ocean."

"What the #$#$?" Lucius muttered, got up, smacked the TV, and watched, satisfied, as the message flickered and vanished.

He sat back down contentedly just as the theme song came to and end. Not even those bloody aliens could keep him from his hourly portion of sit-com-palooza.

He was ten minutes in, when he looked away from the screen. "Anybody else hear that annoying _ringing_ sound?" he shouted loudly

"I think it's the doorbell. I was ignoring it incase it was one of those stupid Girl Scouts again." Answered Bellatrix.

"Just get the pepper-spray ready and answer it. And shouldn't the sprinkler system be working too?"

"Good idea, Lucius." Bellatrix called.

She answered the door.

**Brown Plantation, Bayou, Deep South, Good Ol' US of A**

Voldemort didn't understand how anyone could inhabit Louisiana. Honestly, their remedies for a snapping turtle maiming was to pour gumbo on the wound and leave it outside of the mosquito net at night for the nest two weeks.

He was lying on his straw mat, covered by an alligator skin blanket. His dinner had been gumbo with craw-daddies. The same gumbo that had been used on his hand, as a matter of fact.

At supper, Pa had taken so long saying grace in his southern drawl that Voldemort had forgotten what the man had been talking about.

And Ma had exchanged all of Voldemort's robes, cloaks, and satin underwear with overalls. Only overalls. His pedicure was sure to be ruined.

He rolled over, making sure to keep his hand in the open, swarming air. The good thing, he reflected with an optimistic side that he didn't normally acknowledge, was that the frogs in the swamp were quite peaceful.

Well, until he realized that the frogs were in the bit of swamp _inside_ the house.

Make that inside his mosquito netting.

He swore, quietly, so not to wake Pa and Ma sleeping two feet away on his left, and Billy, Barb, Bob and Beau to his right.

Sighing, the Dark Lord fell asleep almost wishing he was back getting beat up by other inmates.

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AN: (wince) That was short. By the way, that whole "Agent Red Leader" thing was my tribute to Star Wars. I've always thought how horrible to be Puce Leader. Just a random piece of my head.


End file.
